


For What You Believe

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: It is two weeks from the day he swore allegiance to the Burning Legion before Rommath is permitted to see Lor’themar Theron.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragomir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For Nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9159916) by [Dragomir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir). 



> This could be turning into a series! Gawd, no, not that!

It is two weeks from the day he swore allegiance to the Burning Legion before Rommath is permitted to see Lor’themar Theron.

His Legion masters were pleased to receive fealty from such a powerful mage, though they had tested that fealty.  Only a long lifetime of control allowed Rommath to maintain his demeanour in the face of that testing.  He had participated in things that would haunt him and not shown by a twitch of muscle or a change of expression how much it affected him.  They were impressed with him, with his power, his cunning and his willingness.  They called him Rommath of Ice.  But he felt like it should be Stone, because that was what he’d had to make his heart into – stone.  And hidden within that stone, so deeply that no-one would suspect it was there, was a tiny flame of hope.

The hope flares when he is taken through the shattered remains of Silvermoon to see what had become of the Regent Lord.  And it tests every ounce of his self-control not to betray by so much as a twitch his reaction to the sight.

He is splayed against a wall like a pinned butterfly.  Naked, his beautiful body bruised and dirty, he is barely recognisable.  They had even torn off most of his glorious hair.  For what reason, he wonders numbly.  To keep as a trophy, perhaps, to braid it onto their belts along with all the ears they’d taken from dead elves. 

 _At least his still has his ears._   That odd thought floats to the surface and he pushes it aside as he walks slowly forward.  A demon lord walks with him and he knows he is being assessed.  Yet another test of his resolve and his loyalty.

The demon speaks at last, his voice like a hot wind from beyond the Portal.  “So, what do you think of our prize?  You were close to him once, were you not?”

Rommath doesn’t respond at once; it takes some moments to ensure his voice is its usual cool, level tone, that none of the revulsion he feels shows.  “Close?  Not really.  We worked together.  I never cared that much for him.” He treads forward slowly, assessing injuries as he would of someone he cared nothing about.  “You’ve left him mostly undamaged, I see.”

“Mostly.  He has been somewhat stubborn.  I gave some thought to taking his other eye, but did not.  He should see what the Legion does to its enemies. “

Lor'themar looks up at the sound of Rommath’s voice and he sees the Regent Lord’s expression change from numbed to something else.  Something like hatred.  He looks as if he’d like to spit but doesn’t have the saliva or energy to do it. 

“Well, he has enough fire left in his belly to hate you, Magister.” The Demon reaches out and strokes the dirty, matted hair.  “My eredar have worked on him since his capture.  They’ve used various methods to break his will.  He is strong, and I’ve wanted him kept alive, so it has taken a great deal of skill to do just enough to assault his mind and spirit, to bend it to my purposes.”

He can’t help himself – he reaches out and touches Lor’themar’s shoulder.  There is a part of it still untouched by wounds and the skin is feverishly hot.  He’s unwell, Rommath knows, whether from infection or poison or some foulness put into his body by the demons.  Whatever it is, it’s eating away at his stamina, physical and mental.  “May I have him?”  His mouth speaks before his brain can censor it and his eyes narrow in annoyance.

“For what purpose?” 

He collects himself and turns to face the demon.  “Experimentation.  I have some charms in mind that might be used against the stronger minded.  He would be an apt subject for them.”

“Not, perhaps, because you hold some affection for him?”

The demon is clever, or simply poking him in the hopes he’d reveal something.  It’s red eyes are narrowed and suspicious, and Rommath shrugs.

“The only person I’ve ever had any, ah, affection, for, was Kael’thas.  And Lor’themar Theron is no Kael'thas.”  He removes his hand and wipes it on his robe.  “But it was an idle thought only.  I’m sure you can provide me with equally useful subjects.”

The demon lord appears to consider it, then shakes its head.  “You may choose from any other of the slaves kept alive, except any marked for my project.  I have plans for this one.  My alchemists have fed it certain elixirs which they are hopeful will generate a transformation.”  It smiles, showing sharp teeth.  “Your people destroyed many demons in the past.  It seems only just that we replace them from your flesh.  This one,” he finishes, prodding Lor’themar’s chest with a sharp claw, “will make an exceptional demon.  He will serve the Legion well.”

A magister’s caution would normally have him voicing a concern that the elixir was just as likely to kill Lor’themar as change him.  Such cautions do not apply, of course, to a demon lord.  The fact that it is the leader of his people who is being corrupted only makes it more pleasant for the demon.  And Rommath knows it would not be long, either way.  He would soon be transformed, or die. 

_So if I am to get him – get both of us – away from here, it must be sooner still._

He’d hoped to locate more to save, but there was no time now.  The few plans he’d made would require precise timing, and there was no opportunity to find others.  And taking others would reduce his chance of getting them both away.  It is a cold equation.

So he nods in salute to the demon lord and goes off about his supposed business without even a backwards glance at the battered Lor’themar.  There were other chambers in ruined Silvermoon City being used for prisoners and torture; the scent of blood drifts as a grotesque miasma of pain and death.  Where once the pristine halls had smelled of perfume and incense, now they stink of urine and faeces and rotted flesh.  The Legion must, he thought as he pinches his nostrils and wafted a perfumed kerchief over his face, have little sense of smell.

He makes his way up an intact tower to the room he has taken for himself.  His original quarters had been destroyed when the city had been sacked, and this one had once been a weather tower, filled with equipment.  He’d shoved it all out a convenient window, scrounged bedding and fabric to make himself a nest, and put wards in place to keep lesser demons and other things away.  Naturally anything with real power would gain entry, but he wasn’t trying to keep them out.  It would have looked wrong to even try.

He stands at the window staring out across the vista that had once delighted him, and is now a cause for pain.  The city that his people had fought so hard to protect is almost unrecognisable.   Cockroach-like, demons and other servants of the Burning Legion fly above it or scuttle through its galleries, torture and kill its inhabitants, enjoy their gruesome pleasures in its once-beautiful halls.  Like a sin'dorei held down and abused, Silvermoon lies prostrate under a bleak sky.

Rommath knows he could not have saved it, nor any of its people.  It had cost him so much to stay and bend the knee to the Legion.  It was a sharp price to pay to rescue one person.  Yet what else could he have done?

_I could not just run away and leave him here.  What price my honour for such an act?  He forgave me my past stupidities, he accepted me for who and what I am.  He is a good, decent man.  I will save him if I can, and release him to the Light if I cannot.  And if it costs me my unlived years, then so be it.  There are worst ways to die than in service of a friend._

He suspects  the demon lord might use him for his experiments in time – a demon with his magical abilities would be a great servant, far more useful and able to return again and again from the Nether.  It is the kind of thing one such as that would do and he didn’t plan to stay around long enough for the idea to occur, if it hadn’t already.   As it is, the Burning Legion has corrupted the Sunwell, turning its output to Fel so that any Sin'dorei drawing on it will eventually be Fel-infected beyond any hope of survival.  It is a cunningly twisted way to destroy a race.

His own level of corruption has grown with each passing day.  He had put in place magics to reduce the impact but it leaves him weakened.  In time he will need to address that issue.  It might well mean destroying the thing he’d once dedicated his life to protecting.  But that was something for another time, and it might not be possible anyway.

But one thing he can do is get Lor’themar away from the Legion.  So he packs a small pouch of things he would need, and sits to wait for nightfall.

It is much easier to pass through the hallways unseen at night.  His cloaking abilities hide him from normal Legion servants and he can sense the ones who would see him, such as the disgusting floating eyes, and avoid them.  He has to wait in a shadowed corner until the eredar are finished with Lor’themar; listening to his pained cries and their pleased laughter grates on his mind like a talon.  Finally, when they’d sated themselves on him, they left him alone, and Rommath is finally able to slip into the room.

He studies the limp figure as bile rises in this throat.  They had fastened him to the wall by the simple expedience of hammering spikes through his body at various points.  None of the things are immediately fatal and the wounds had been sealed but the pain of any movement has to be hideous.  He’d obviously been fed and watered only enough to keep him alive and suffering.  And each day, as the foul elixir worked on him, as the tainted power flowed into him from the Sunwell – or more rightly the Felwell now – his state became more evident.  Horns had begun to form on his skull, small as yet but there nonetheless.  His hands, laid flat from the impact of spikes, were growing into claws.  And the single eye that finally focuses on him glows an even more vibrant green than it had previously, and with more than a hint of madness.

Lor’themar snarls, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth.  “Come to gloat, mongrel?” he whispers, throat hoarse from his screams.  “Or perhaps to enjoy your own pleasure?  Why not?  You can be no worse…than the others…”

Drawing on his power, Rommath goes to work on the spikes.  No matter how careful he is, drawing them out causes pain and Lor’themar keens at it, fighting to hold himself still against the greater pain of movement.  One by one, the Magister removes them and drops the ichor-covered spikes to the ground.  When the last is pulled he gathers Lor’themar to him, despite the curses, the bites and gouges.

“Yes, you may hurt me later, Lor’themar,” he whispers as he drags the Regent Lord away from the wall.  “For now, restrain your natural impulses for a few moments.”  Awkwardly, with his arms full of squirming, furious elf, Rommath works a portal spell and steps through it, pulling Lor’themar with him.  The room fades behind him and he stumbles forward into undergrowth, coming to a sudden halt against a tree.  He had not been able to port them very far – they were beyond the borders of Silvermoon in the forest, but still too close for safety.  He slides the Regent Lord on the grass and crouches down beside him, resting his back against the tree.

“Well, that’s the first step.  Easier than I thought…”

And then he is being hit and kicked and cursed by a naked, sick, dirty, injured and at least partly-turned Lor’themar who is a great deal easier to subdue than he once would have been.  Which Rommath achieves by the simple act of lying on top of him.  “Be still, Lor’themar.  Have you become a fool along with everything else?”

The Regent Lord’s struggles diminish as his energy fades.  “Kill me,” he mutters, shaking with pain and weakness.  “Do me that…courtesy..at least.”

“Nonsense.  I suffered a great deal to find and deliver you from them.  Killing you would be a waste.”

Lor’themar begins to shake and it is only after a few moments that that Rommath realises he is laughing.  Choked, hysterical laughter, but laughter still.  “That much…is still you,” Lor’themar finally manages to say as his hysteria fades.  “To deplore waste.”

“Yes, well, it would be.  If I sit up would you stop hitting me?”

Lor’themar grunted.  “I believe I can control my desire to rip you apart, yes.”  He wriggles.  “Anything to get you off me.”

“Hmph.”  He slides off and watches Lor’themar grimly pull himself upright.  “You are in need of a healer.  I have no skills at assisting with injuries.”

“I’m fine.  Well,” he winces as pain ripples through him, “not fine, but I can move.  Can you get us further away, to somewhere safe?”

“Is there anywhere safe in this world anymore?”  Rommath sighs and pulls the black and green robe sleeves down his arms.  “I’ll find us somewhere marginally less dangerous.”  His eyes narrow in thought.  “And I believe I know just the place…”

He opens a second portal, this one a little trickier than the first.  It would have to bypass a number of layers of power, but they were ancient energies and he knew them very well.  He bends to pick up Lor’themar, ignoring his grumbles and groans of pain, and walks through, leaving Eversong Woods behind.

They step out into woodland, but it’s very different to Eversong Woods.  Here the trees are enormous, great pines that tower overhead and the air is cool with a sense of snow and rain not too far distant.  A short distance away is a group of buildings made from local woods and perched on the side of a hill.  It’s almost deserted, Rommath knows that immediately, so the sight of the Alliance flag flying from a staff atop the main building doesn’t disturb him. 

"Where?" Lor'themar mutters a question, his voice dry and tired.

"Northrend.  Grizzly Hills to be exact."  He props Lor’themar against a tree and moves towards the main building.  “Wait for me and please don’t do anything silly.”  He hears a grunt from behind him that could be either disgust or agreement, and keeps walking with his hands in view.  He stops at the sound of a window covering opening and a dwarvish voice.

“Alright you, stop right there, come no closer or I shoot!”

Rommath steps forward and holds out his hands.  “Do not be a fool.  There is no more Alliance, no more Horde.  There are just survivors of the Burning Legion.  I have someone in need of healing.  I ask that you help us.  Please.”

Begging is not something Rommath is accustomed to, but it has become a time of new things and a time of bending.  So he waits, as patiently as he can, and just when he thinks he will need to try somewhere else, the door opens and a dwarf steps through onto the building’s entry porch.  He is an older dwarf, his beard and hair grey with age and he carries a bow and wears the tattered gear of a hunter.  “Aye, I hear you, blood elf.  But I’ve youngsters here and I need to be sure.  Bring your friend  closer where me people inside can check you over.”

Nodding, Rommath turns and bends to help Lor’themar up.  The Regent Lord staggers; his wounds have begun to bleed and he is obviously fast running out of strength.  With a whispered curse, Rommath bends and lifts the man up into his arms, supporting him with a quick word of power.  Lor’themar isn’t a small man but weeks of deprivation have reduced him and Rommath can carry him, though not far.  He reaches the edge of the porch and stops.  “I can’t carry him far, sir dwarf, please decide quickly.”

The dwarf steps backwards and half turns his head, listening to whispered voices behind him.  Finally, he turns.  “Very well, bring him in.  We’ve a healer here willing to help your friend.”

Rommath climbs the few steps that feel like a mountain side to his tired back and arms, and struggles through the open doorway.  It’s cool and dim inside with no fire lit in the hearth – sensibly – and a group of people standing across the room with various weapons drawn.  There’s a human woman, some sort of warrior, a dwarven paladin in battered gear with a broken sword, some children and youngsters and, blessedly, a priest.  The latter directs Rommath to a side room with a bed and he lowers Lor’themar onto the blankets.

“He is in a bad way, healer.  Do what you can for him.”

She smiles and lays a hand on Rommath’s shoulder.  He flinches but holds still.  “Your soul is stained, mage, but I sense you’ve walked a difficult path.  When I’m done, you’ll take a shriving?  It will help you release the darkness in you.”

He nods – anything to get Lor’themar into care.  Then he steps aside and sinks into the rickety chair beside the bed, and watches.

She says little as she works, just pushing the worn sleeves up to her elbows and settling herself next to Lor’themar on the side of the bed.  Pale, able hands work over his wounds and the air vibrates and glows and a smell of herbs and warm sunlight enters the room.  Lor’themar sighs and closes his eye as his pain fades under her touch.  “Well,” she mutters, her own eyes closed, “you are a mess.  So much damage, so many hurts and ills.  There’s a poison in him,” she says, eyes opening as she turns her head to Rommath.  “I know not what it is, but it is a terrible thing.   I cannot change what it has already done to your friend, but I may be able to negate its further effects.  I will need to brew some potions…”  Humming a strange little tune, she continues to work until Lor’themar slips into a deep sleep.

After a time she pulls her hands away and sucks in a depth breath.  “I’ve done what I can for a first healing.  He will need much rest, feeding and certainly lots of fluids.  I’ve healed his obvious wounds, inside and out, and stopped some infection from growing.  And, as I said, I’ll need to make some potions.”  She put one hand on Lor’themar’s head, lightly touched the small horns among his hair.  “The Legion is responsible for this, is it not?”

Rommath nods, not taking his eyes from Lor’themar’s bruised face.  Peacefully asleep, the anguish smooths from his features as his body relaxes for the first time in weeks.  “Yes.  They wished to transform him, make a demon of him.  And it is bad for all of we Sin’dorei, as the source of our power has been corrupted, and its influence is equally corrupting.  So we must fight against that as well.”

“That’s not something I can help you with, though others may be able to.  You will need to seek help from the leaders of the Kirin Tor, I think, if any survived the fall of Dalaran.”  Standing,  she pulled her robes together.  “I’ll leave you to rest with him.  Give him your warmth and company, he will need a lover’s contact to for comfort.”

“We aren’t lovers.”

Smiling, the young Draenei pats his shoulder.  “Are you not?  Strange, I thought you were.  What I suspect you have endured for him are acts of great love.  I know not the details, but I can sense something of the flow of Light in your heart and how it seeks out his.  Whatever you are, he needs the healing you can give him now more than mine.”

She leaves him with her blessing and closes the door.  As the lights dim and cool evening creeps into the room, Rommath seeks out the warmth of Lor’themar’s body and lies with him beneath the blankets, and the Regent Lord curls around him to rest his head on Rommath’s chest. He stiffens at the unfamiliar contact, then lets himself accept it.  There is no one to see, no one to know and certainly no one to judge.

It’s a long time before sleep finds him but when he does, he feels that his heart is beating in time with Lor’themar’s.  It might be mere serendipity but he thinks as he drifts asleep, that it might mean something more.

 

* * *

 

 

Lor’themar woke in the early morning while the world was turning from black to grey and the first bird calls were sounding beyond the window.  Light filtered through a partly broken window along with a cool brush of air and the smell of growing things.  It felt good – clean, untainted.  But it took some moments for his mind to clear, to realise he was wrapped in arms, still naked, his face lying very close to another’s skin.

Understanding seeped into his mind, a little at a time and he almost moved away.  Almost.  Despite the strangeness of it, of being held by someone, it was – _what…comfortable…restful._   And something else.  Secure.  He felt secure.

And that was very strange indeed, because it was Rommath’s body he lay against, Rommath’s skin his breath touched.

Rommath the Felsworn, the Betrayer, the Traitor. 

His captors had tortured him with more than tools, they’d used words as well.  Rommath, they’d told him, had joined the Legion, betraying his loyalties and his people and doing terrible things.  They’d shown him some of the things with their foul mind magics.  But the worst thing was that he’d believed them.  Perhaps because he’d carried a hidden doubt that the demons had found, as they were so clever at doing.  They’d dug out that kernel of distrust of Rommath and watered it with his own fears.  He saw and he believed. Because it was true - he had done those terrible things, the kind of deeds that had to stain the soul no matter how noble the purpose.  He would always be the Betrayer.  He would always be a murderer.

And yet the things done to him gave Lor'themar a different perspective.  He knew he had been changed by the fel elixirs fed to him, and Lor'themar thought those changes made it easier to accept things that once he could not have.  Whether it be for expedience or callousness or simply because it was the way things were, he accepted Rommath's actions because he could.

Rommath stirred in his sleep, his head turning towards Lor’themar and the Regent Lord studied the planes of that familiar face.  The bones were more stark now under taught, weary skin.   Lor’themar had never been that empathic, it wasn’t a skill required of a warrior.  Judging the feelings of others had never come easily to him, especially those who hid their feelings well.  Rommath was very good at hiding his feelings.  Someone with little empathy might think he didn’t have any…

If he moved his face forward but a tiny space, he could…what?  He wasn’t sure he wanted to put into thoughts what he could do.  A tiny space – an immense distance.  The distance between what they had been and what they could be.  Between acceptance and rejection.  But, he thought wearily, I’ve no empathy so the only way to know what he’ll feel about it is to do it.

He crossed that space, closed his eye and pressed his lips to Rommath’s.  The wide mouth slid open and he opened his eye again and looked, saw Rommath watching him through lowered lids, wearing that same unreadable expression.  Yet - he didn’t move, didn’t pull away, just let himself be kissed and finally, hesitantly, responded.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind that many people have died for their beliefs; it's actually quite common. The real courage is in living and suffering for what you believe.  
> ― Christopher Paolini


End file.
